Chainman
by Cygna-hime
Summary: A homage to a character who was mentioned only briefly, but caught my fancy; Adron's chainman, Morrolan's brother, son of the Warlord, Molric e'Drien.


Chainman  
  
Hey all you people who know what I'm babbling on about! This is my first Dragaera-based fanfic, so I ought to disclaim properly, oughtn't I? Well.  
  
Disclaimer: The Dragaera universe and all elements therein is owned by Steven Brust. I have not asked him for permission to use them, but I'm certain he won't mind. I took the liberty of naming an unnamed character, and I hope he'll forgive me that. But if he doesn't want me to name his characters, he should give them names!  
  
Warnings: SPOILERS for Five Hundred Years After, minor spoilers for Issola and Paths of the Dead. Death. Eeek. Dragaera fans are *so* bothered by death, I don't think!  
  
Well. Since I know nobody cares about this song and dance, onward to fanfic!  
  
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My name is Molric e'Drien, of the House of the Dragon. My father was Rollondar e-Drien, Warlord to Emperor Tortaalik the Second. My mother was Mordra e'Kieron. Her brother's name was Adron. I was his chainman.  
Do you begin to understand?  
I was in the service of my lord Adron e'Kieron, Duke of Eastmanswatch, from the age of two hundred and eighty-nine, as is traditional for youths of my House. I was to serve him for again that number of years, and perchance, had tings been other than they were, I would have done so. Mayhap my apprenticeship would have ended as chainman to the Eighteenth Dragon Emperor. Perhaps, in a way, it did, for I died in service to my Emperor, albeit the shortest-lived such in history.  
I did not know what my lord was planning. As I rode to battle, I looked only to fights either glorious or ignoble, for the cause of the lord to whom I was bound. If I wondered why my lord was not leading the charge, I was then too trusting in his judgement to question his actions. How naïve are we when we are young! I was young; barely three hundred. That was well-nigh five hundred years ago.  
The battle was, I now suppose, glorious in its way. I do not recall. The first moment clear to my mind was barely a second before Tortaalik's death. My horse had been killed by a spell, had reared and fallen, and I was pinned underneath it. Though I am still not sure, I know I must have been wounded more than once. That I do not remember. What I do remember are my last, living thoughts;  
Congratulations, father. You've won.  
I'm sorry, uncle. You've lost.  
I'm sorry I did not fight better for you, my lord.  
My felicitations, my Emperor, it seems that my lord was mistaken.  
Gods all bless-  
  
The world ended.  
  
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I learned from our shared conciousness what had happened. It did not surprise me; I always knew my uncle for an intemperate man. I do not blame my cousin; had I been able, I without a doubt should have done the same, or even the assassin. Although she is my first cousin, I freely admit that I would not have trusted myself to refuse anything so beautiful a lady asked of me. No, blame cannot be laid at the feet of any individual. So easy to say, 'If my lord hadn't-' or 'If Aliera hadn't-' or 'If the Enchantress hadn't-', so difficult to trace to its root the ever so tiny event that could have changed things. I believe that the Disaster was brought about by neither my lord nor my cousin, but through a series of coincidences which no one culd have predicted or averted. Most great and terrible events are. Remember that, for yourself.  
I know Aliera blames herself. Tell her not to. I know you've met my brother. I wish I had. Tell him our father would be-is- so proud of him. You've found a dangerous family of Dragonlords to get caught up with. Remember me to them. Remember me.  
  
My name is Molric e'Drien.  
  
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He stand by the shores of the Lesser Sea of Amorphia. With his left hand resting on the hilt of his new sword, he wonders if this is a side effect of the events of the last few day, or if he could always have done it if he'd tried. He decides it doesn't really matter. He turns to go but pauses, feeling something else is called for. Half- turning, he calls over his shoulder,  
"Glad to have met you, Molric."  
He walks off into the future and the Sea of Chaos remains, ever shifting, never changing. In the mix can be glimpsed, for a moment, a pattern of shadows that could almost be the face of a young man, who smiles briefly and is gone in the ocean of sands. Someone will remember. Remember Molric e'Drien.  
  
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Wheee! Finished! There, now, that wasn't so bad.  
  
Review or I'll have Vlad do some 'work' on you!  
  
Ja! 


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